Not Mentioning Any Names
by trapt-tage
Summary: Short pieces of AU focusing on different characters from the DNAngel universe. Written as an exercise in vocabulary.
1. Allein mit Sich

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: _All this is, is a writing exercise_ that a friend of mine and I did one night. Since it was loosely based on the characters of DNAngel, she said I ought to post it. Since it was late that night, I agreed. ("Ah Heck," I had said, "it's not like anyone actually _knows _me." Hosa-chan, this is not the time to prove me wrong.) If you like being confused stupid, read on, but I can't promise the amount of substance you'll find.

* * *

Class ended, but the boy in the back row had no idea of it. He was too busy dreamy to go home. It wasn't that he was 'unconscious,' but his mind was far too far gone out the window for him to be considered very aware.

He realized the end of the class, only when the lights suddenly darkened, and the door closed. The instructor was too used to the boy staying after in his daydreamy state to bother to rouse him from wherever his mind rested again. The poor boy quickly gathered his belongings and hurried out of the dark room.

As he exited the classroom, leaving the door slightly ajar in his haste, his mind-friend joined him. The other boy was a thief by night, as the redhead pretended, and lived the most exciting life any boy-thief could ever wish for. He was invisible to the rest of the world, but the redhead knew better than to acknowledge the made-up man in front of others, anyway.

Side-by-side, the two friends walked towards home, chatting about books they had read, or shows they had seen since the night before.


	2. La renommée garde ses secrets

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

* * *

"M. le Comte de Hikari."

From the first landing of the grand staircase descended the ever-so-elegant Hikari count, robed in the finest and whitest silks Paris could offer him. About his shoulders swept the golden locks that many Parisian dames could all but swoon over. The remainder of the tresses were pulled up in a high ponytail, the ends of which brushing lightly and daintily against his calves as he reached the final step of the staircase.

He bowed his head to the crowd before him, and through the holes of his white mask they could see his golden eyes panning their entirety. The coup d'oiel ended only when he caught sight of and locked onto a dark figure in the back of the crowd, smiling behind his disguise. But the count remained in his place, waiting for the nomenclator to make his next call.

"M. le Vicomte de Hikari."

From the top of the staircase came another figure; smaller, shorter, and younger than the first. The viscount reached the final step after his dignified trip down the stairs, and, as his brother had before him, bowed to the awaiting guest. The color of his tastes, mask, and even hair had before earned him the name of 'Monsieur Watchet.' As soon as he finished the gesture, the ever-effeminate count beside him began walking towards the back of the Hall, not waiting for the applause of their arrival to subside.

The evangelistic blonde left the viscount to fend for himself against the onslaught of an audience and a ball simultaneously. He himself neared the dark figure of whom he had previously spotted - of whom the public thought to be an acquaintance, and the pair knew to be a lover.

"Monsieur, I was hardly expecting to see you here, I understand charity was never one of your foremost priorities. Nevertheless, it is a…pleasure to see you." The count began.

"Why, you do not know so much about me after all!" said his companion with mock disbelief. "I have come here solely for your sake, and your sake only. Does that itself not count as charity?"

"How correct you are my friend; perhaps I am truly mistaken. Forgive my hasty judgment."

"Oh, you are quite forgivable, don't fret over it," the taller man replied behind his dark mask. "Quite forgivable."

* * *

AN: To minimize the number of people asking 'So…who he talking to?' go back and how many times I use the descriptive 'd…' word. Oh, and if my French is wrong, please correct me (Hell, I live in America and am taking German 1, I did my best as far as the French goes.) 


	3. Momento Mortis

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: Guessing the characters shouldn't be too hard; I nearly tell you who they all are. Just make some educated inferences.

* * *

The song repeated itself many times in the rain that day, though whether they had actually played the dirge over on the organ or whether it had been all in the poor girl's head was left to be questioned. But that was the first time, and since then, it had been a little easier not to hear at all.

Just days ago, she had been singing the Tedeum, and now it was to herself she whispered "Kyrie eleison…" in the same church. Many of the people around her would more than occasionally glance over to her to see if she was yet crying.

Truth be told, the young girl had no intention of shedding a tear, be it a funeral or no, be it her sister or not. She hadn't felt the urge to cry in a rather long time.

She rode in one of the long black limousines to the gravesite; it was the same black limousine that her read haired and weeping brother-in-law rode in as well. He had told her that he admired her strength in not crying, and took his daughter's hand after he wiped away the fresh tears.

They arrived at the gravesite, and the young girl watched the casket go down, threw a flower, and walked away. She could feel the strange glances on her back, questioning as to why she carried her bouquet away with her, but she offered no explanation, and they received no answers.

The young woman walked deeper into the graveyard without even trying to think of where she was going. Her mind did not need to be told when to make her turn and stop, or when to lay down her flowers and kneel. She suddenly opened her eyes, and found herself kneeling before a gray headstone engraved not even with a name, by only with the words "Requiescat in Pace."

She looked down and saw the white bunch of flowers she had laid before the grave marker, and instead of leaving the site as she had she sister's, she stayed and remembered the first time she had come to that plot.

It _had_ been raining that day, and many of the people present, which included a number of the police force, had proclaimed it the Requiem of a genius. A final farewell to a man - to a _boy_ that could have solved the problems of the world, had he had the life long enough.

She had heard none of them, and had cried the entire time through the service, with her tears the heaviest during the lowering of the casket into the ground. It was then that her tears fell like rain drops, as she gave her wet flowers and stepped away from the edge of the deep hole. She ha cried the hardest she had ever cried, but it hadn't brought him back - and she knew how he had hated unnecessary fribble - so she stopped her tears for him, and was careful to keep it that way.

She now stood, looked once more at the white flowers, the headstone, back again, and she turned and left. She had never kissed him for the last time, but until she was beside him again, she knew that she would never get the chance.


	4. Veritas vos Liberabit

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: Wow! I actually got a response on this! And it was positive! Well, to tell the truth, I wasn't going to write anymore like this, but since it wasn't as bad as I thought it was, I'll continue doing my exercises with the DNAngel characters and such. At least until I think of something better.

* * *

The melodramatic music only deepened his mood. He was here for her. She was playing her parts perfectly, like an angel to be reckoned, and he wouldn't miss a moment of it. He knew she had worked hard at this - harder than _he_ had ever worked at anything­ - and this was her big pay off. It was her time to show what she had worked so hard to do; to become.

She loved the violin. He didn't know what she loved about it so dearly, but he knew that she loved it with all her heart, like he loved her. It was perhaps being able to create magic with her fingertips, for what is more real magic than music? Surely maybe love, but what was the difference to her between love and music?

He was seated quite near the stage, right in front of her, so as to have as clear a view of her as possible, and could see her every placid detail gleaming under the bright lights. She was stunning. She sat among the entire orchestra, but none of the others could capture his attention as she had and as she held it. She had pulled up her long hair into a tight bun, giving her an air of confidence and intelligence, like she knew what she was doing. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Beside her was another violinist, a man he recognized to be her tutor of sorts. His pale blonde hair and pale lavender eyes made him unmistakable. He would come to the house every so often to help her keep up with her playing and to move ahead of the rest. He was, imaginably, a very fine player, even if they were only students.

But for now, the boy would be disregarded, as the defining moment, her melody solo, was reached, and she began to play in the silence of the others, she stood to take her credit; all eyes in the house upon her. The music seemed to pour from every stand and fiber of her, and she closed her eyes and smiled in the light and the moment. The melodies could not have been intended ever to be more beautiful, as the magic she created flowed silkily and smoothly to every corner and dark doorway of the hall. The high voice of the instrument was humming as if it was alive, and she was its master, stroking its voice to sing. Like she was entreating the instrument to sing. That was her magic.

He couldn't stand to look at her any longer. His eyes burned with the bright glow that surrounded her, and with the tears at the very corner of his eyes. His angel. She stung his eyes with all her beauty. He closed his eyes and lowered his chin just a hair. He could still imagine her standing up tall in front of all of her peers, and putting them to shame with her brilliance. He could feel his purple locks brushing lightly against his forehead, but he was lost too deep in her music for it to register. When the sounds grew light, and softly the rest of the orchestra slowly joined back in, he could practically see her open her eyes and sit back down.

He opened his eyes, and the entire string section went silent as the melody shifted elsewhere and she took her seat. The stage was alight with melody and beauty and lightly tapping feet. But he could see every placid detail of her gleaming under the bright lights, and he didn't miss what she hid. Her face turned away from him, to the boy next to her. In their semi-circle of players, he was slightly to in front of her. And to him she looked with a gaze that was all too familiar to all of them.

Deep violet eyes widened in shock. Her eyes…that wasn't right, he was in love with her, he was her beloved! Wasn't that…That was the look that he knew he gave her too often. The look that spoke too many words ever to be expressed, all said in mere moments left to the eyes. Wasn't that…the way he had been watching from the audience all night? As if she was his sole raison d'etre? As if she was his entire purpose in life? In existing?

His head was racing.

'_No, she…that was a mistake. I saw her wrong…it was the fault of the lighting. There was never any "look" there on her face; she was smiling the whole time. Why, she didn't even have her eyes open, did she?'_

He looked back at her face, hoping for a sign that he had been wrong. She was playing again, and her eyes were still open, and still facing away from the audience, and towards the sandy-haired boy next to her. But…_why_? How could she? Was she not _his _Rose of Jericho? Was _he_ not the one that made her open up, made her love, and made her smile? What was there to love about that other? She only loved music, magic and him, didn't she? Where was there room for another?

He could hear the pocket watch of the man next to him. It was louder than the music. The violins were shrill. Screeching. The watch. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Only it was more of a 'click' than a 'tick.' Click. Clock. Click. Clock. And the flutes trilled. Higher and Higher. Sharper and sharper. And he could see the maestro's hands waving and flailing, and he was fast. The man moved to fast. Her smile was growing brighter. She was enjoying herself. Click. Clock. _Why_ didn't she love him! It wasn't fair! That boy was just a mere child in comparison. Clock. And he could feel it now. The trilling, the screeching, the clicking, the tapping, the smiling; he felt it beating inside of him. Like his adrenaline was screaming it. And he could feel a sharp pain in him and something break as every thing got louder and louder and crescendoed. There was a crashing of symbols, and things started to spin.

"Raison d'etre. And when all moisture is gone, the rose will curl back up…" He started to soliloquize. Click. Clock. It was in his chest. It was pounding in his head.

Suddenly, everything stopped hurting. It all faded back to not being felt. The maestro still motioned, but on so violently. The melodies continued, but not so fast. The music was fading; growing faint in the distance. He could hear it, playing on like a soundtrack to a phone conversation. Getting farther and farther away…

"Who are you?"

"I have no name, I have simply a duty."

"I need to watch the recital."

"You did. And that, unfortunately, became the problem."

"Why doesn't she love me?"

"Because she loves music more."

"Why him?"

"Because he is the closest thing she can have to music as a lover."

"Can I fix it?"

"No, it's much too late for that. Please, if you would be so kind, I can hardly have you be sitting around here for a time much longer, you're in a place you don't belong."

"But…I love her…"

"Yes, too much, from the cynic's point. You must leave now, we ought to be going."

"Who are you?"

"Call me the Psycho Pomp."

"I can't even hear the music anymore. How can I watch her recital if you won't let me hear the music. Do turn the volume back up."

"You'll hear music in the Firmament, that I can promise. But please, you have idled enough time with these questions, everything will be answered if you ask when we get there, but you must come now."

"Where are we going?"

"The Firmament."

"Oh."

He got out of his seat and walked towards the door. The man next to him didn't seem to notice, and his companion didn't seem surprised. He just stood in the aisle and shook his head, gold tresses dropping from behind his shoulders. He looked like any angel should, and his wings were the whitest color of pure.

"Come along."

"I think…I'll miss her, though…"

"Don't worry. You'll have time enough to forget."

* * *

AN: This one is different. I tried somthing new in this one, but that's one of the things these exercises are for, so if you didn't like what you got, it's probably because it's practically developmental. Oh, and all the characters_ are_ from DNAngel, if you don't recognize the blonde/purple eyed character, I'll just say it's a coming attraction to manga readers, and leave it at that. 


	5. Boreas, Eurus, Notus, et Zephyrus

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

* * *

She came in from the South, bringing with her the kind warmth and sunshine, and along the way she met her Western brother. There was to be an event that evening, and neither of them were hoping to be late. They ran along the ocean shores at great speeds, both smiling out of their own disposition. He was the first to remember who they were to be meeting once again, and was the first one to drop his innocent smile.

From the East he came in swaggering, not much to trouble him, but no reason for him to hurry. After all, they couldn't get him in trouble if he was late, it was only a wedding, and he was only _immortal_. The only thing on the eudemon's mind was when he would have to deal with his Northern brother, and how soon the two would be reunited.

He threw his dark locks back in nonchalance and the ocean coiled in waves. The air smelled sweet, and there was a good deal of sun. It was perfect outside. He put the winds to his liking, and kept on his stroll until he would come to an intersection from the north - which he undoubtly would.

And the last to be counted, the Rider of the North, came on wings of ice. He was wild and frigid, as the others liked to describe him, with hardly a care as to what mess was caused below him. Actually, he enjoyed the messes. What better way to use your powers than to abuse them? He would tear the trees up from their very roots without even meaning it, though he would hardly mourn the loss. He was cold and bitter and held the scent of frost like the west held flowers. Overall, he was the most disagreeable of them all, white wings and all.

When he reached the plains at the base of the great foothills, he dropped his speed and set foot on the Earth. He decided to wait for his little brothers and the girl just to show that he had gotten there first. His cocky attitude was his little way of spiting his siblings, but as for a reason to his spite, he didn't have one; he was just spiteful in spite of himself.

The Eastern boy was the second to be seen at the same point, and it was a shame too, for, had either of the others come in his place, the meeting would have had a decidedly lower probability of ending in violence. As it was, the two oldest never quite got along, with one being cold and harsh and the other laid back and a bit cunning. The humans got quite a storm when the East and North collided, with winds whipping back and forth, growling and howling throughout the confrontation.

Soon enough though, a gentle warm rain began to sprinkle through the wind storm, and it was realized that the Southern and Western had arrived together. She smiled tiredly, closed her green eyes, and shook her head. It had been expected, but she was still smiling. She knew that she would once again act - the Western as well - as the family median. Being the youngest, they were the warmest and cheeriest of the group, both liking warm drizzles and spring.

The Western just stood to her side in silence, his face blank. As his brothers stopped their feuding, he looked up to face them, his blonde hair lightly brushing above his eyes. He was the first to speak, and, being the youngest, it was in the quietest voice he asked:

"Is it time to go now?"

"Yes. Mama said we had to go and be that we'd better be _nice_ at the wedding, this time. And she didn't want us to be _late_, this time, either." His sister answered while pointedly glaring at the Eastern. It was more to her glaring than her words that he replied.

"…So? Mama _always_ says that…"

They bickered back and forth as they tended to do, and the men in the nearby village were closing their doors and windows against the gusting winds. Once again it was the western that called attention to the matter that deserved it, while still in a small, flat voice.

"…Does this mean we're going to arrive late?"

It grew cold for a moment as the North opened his wings and moved ahead of them. He had apparently been the first to get the point, and was ready to leave. His impatience was realized, and the two middle children stopped their insulting and followed on foot, not needing the skies.

The youngest stayed behind, and in his fingers he twirled a rose. His face was of a child's blank innocence, and after a moment of mindless twirling, he looked down at the flower in his fingers. Perhaps he would give it to the bride; she would look nice with a flower. Anyone who would wed in the spring out of doors he thought deserved his little flowers. As long as his eldest brother didn't feel the need to raise Hell, the West imagined that the wedding would be very splendid indeed for her. The Sun was bright, the sky clear, and the wind…the wind was mellow.

* * *

AN: …Um…well, if you keep in mind that this was written for _my_ benefit and not so much for yours, then perhaps you'll not think I've got crazy by wasting my time on writing something like this. This was less of an exercise in vocabulary as it was an exercise in technique (specifically personification). I know it was weird, and I know you may not understand, but whatever. I just enjoy imagining the _concept_ of something, and not really the story behind it. I don't care _why_ Krad was a French count, or what _happened _to him as a count, I just liked to think that he was. I don't care _why _Riku and Satoshi were dead, I just liked to imagine that they were. Maybe I am crazy…-t-t


	6. Ab Extra

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: Presenting Exercise #6: The exercise of ANGST! (duh duh duh!) Well Les Scribbles, I had said that thatlocked in your mind idea had been an idea of mine from the other night…so this is what became of it. I'm surprised at the speed, but I'm glad I don't have to look forward to three more days thinking up an idea for this. Lemme know if you find anymore words to define. -t-t

* * *

There are many sides to my box. I count four. That's a lot. I don't think I have that many of anything else in my life. Not four memories, not four friends, not four glimpses of the Sun, not even four different thoughts in my head anymore. For in my head I am.

I am locked in a little tiny corner of myself, not able, not allowed, and not willing to break myself out. To me, it's a little personal Hell that keeps me chained to the wall. But I can't leave. I can't move. I can't do anything but live.

Perhaps my body is alive in the real world. Perhaps they've strapped it in a straight jacket, or locked it in a padded room, but that doesn't matter, because it's just a body without a mind. Here I am, confined to my little box of black and torture, and there it probably is being labeled a madman. But how can you consider an empty body _any_ type of man?

I've lost track of time in here. For, how does one keep time when they are packed away to live in nothing? Like I was an old book, put on the shelf in the back to make room for the dust to settle in.

And I remember sand. That's the last picture I can call forward in my mind, and one of the only ones left. It was clean sand; fine sand. White and glimmering when it was hit by the Sun. I remember lying down in the sand. It was hot, scorching my back, but it was soft like a blanket, and I remember sinking a few fractions of an inch into it. It was hot, but it felt good, I think. I remember looking at the sand, and then looking up at eyes that shone like the sand. They were light and glimmering and all throughout them were little flecks of dark and black. Just like the sand. I remember I sank _deep _into those eyes. And then I was in a box without a body. I wasn't in a place or even in a time, I just _was_.

I can't exactly say when I came here; it wasn't just like a distinct snap-of-the-fingers kind of change. I can't draw a line to separate when I was _there_ and when I was _here_, I just know I _was_. And now I just _am_. I am alone and in the dark.

Dark.

Dark…

That word means something. I don't know what, but every time I say it to myself a little bell seems to ring in my memory, but what it means, I have no clue. That word is so mysterious, though. Like it hides secrets or ulterior meanings. Like there is more to the 'Dark' than meets the eye. And yet, what could there possibly be in the dark here? It's an empty cage of dark. What could there possibly be in the dark…except _me_?


	7. Lassen Sie tote Hunde liegen

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: This one actually ties in with an assignment I had to do for English class. Two birds with one stone, eh? Alright! Aye, Matie? (…you'll get it).

* * *

I watched the body fall to the boards. Acephalous. The sound of something rolling seemed distant to my ears as I looked at what was happening. I looked at the victim, the cause, and back at the victim. The cause was the only one who 'ad the deadlights to look back at me with, though. And I'll be damned if ever I see sympathy in those eyes.

It had been a 'Black Spot,' and she 'adn't given in. Any dog worth half his weight in spit knows 'at you do as the Black Spot says or yee don't live to regret it. But poor girl, she 'ad never been a seadog to begin with, and yet I 'ad 'eard the boys just the other night, speakin' 'bout keel-haulin' her.

What were they planning on punishin' her for, ya ask? Me. The boys 'adn't liked that thought that she was mine, or more accurately, that _I_ was _hers_, and I guess it was the fact that she came to see me just when they was most despisin' of her, that made 'em give her the Black Spot, 'nstead. And how was she to 'ave known? They only bothered to write a time and a place on the back a that spot. They knew she wouldn't understand what they meant with that little spot, and she didn't. She came tot'ly unprepared for what they was askin' of her.

"You'll not touch my mate n'more, lass; you'll take your leave, and I won't be seein' your face this side of the plank another time." He 'ad said to her. I knew 'e 'ad the cleanest, smoothest tongue out of all of us, but 'e also 'ad the biggest fork. Each word he said was just as friendly as the next, if you didn't know what a polite death threat sounded like. I could only stand in the shadows, 'eld back by Sugar Death and the Piano man. I just watched as she got stubborn and insolent, and as she tried to battle my blonde wit words. Thing was that he didn't want her around me, 'cause I'll be honest, he don't like people's 'ands on 'is things. And she didn't care what he wanted. If she 'ad known what the Black Spot was, maybe she wouldn't 'ave thought the matter was up fer debate.

"What a pity, what a shame. Such long, beautiful, brown hair……soaked wit blood and rolling 'long the floor."

She realized only after he 'ad poised his cutlass, what he meant by those words. She gasped, I flinched, the Piano man 'ad nothing but his blank stare, and Sugar just shook his blue bangs out of his eyes. And that was the end of that sweet-but-stubborn little dame I picked up in that English parlor.

My eyes rested on her dead body, still pouring blood from her only wound, as I found myself wit a 'and on my shoulder and his gold hair tracin' dan it. I don't know why he came over ta me, but in 'is mind he 'ad just killed fer me. I was a prize well-won, if ever it was needed for me te be 'won' by him. The shorter boys had stepped 'way from us, and I was pretty sure that I could see the Piano man with his 'and in her hair. _Ad Nauseam…_

"Whatda yinz doin'?"

The cap'n. The man with the accent not quite from the sea, but the man quiet 'nough so as yee don't remember he 'as it 'till you hear him roar wit anger…in which case you won't be askin' 'bout his accent.

He ruffled his black hair an' stepped the rest a the way down the stairs and inter the "low" hold. He took one look at the mess. I can only 'magine what he saw. Me 'n Blue Blood standin' like we were having a soul-ta-soul chat, and a pritty corpse litterin' the boards an' soakin' our boots. No matter what he saw, he gave his orders without missin' a beat, still in his usual gruff, mellow attitude.

"…'Tine! Put that dan! Death, you two git ter cleanin' up this mess 'fore it reeks. And yinz two," he said noddin' in the direction of my companion and me, "Git outta her'! I keep yer hands on this ship to keep yer hands on _deck_! Now git ter work!"

He left. We got to work. She was still dead.

But respons'bility for the dead ain't a matey's job, so it's just another dog for Blue Blood to chalk up as his victory. Life goes on 'til you die. I guess I'm jus' lucky Blue likes me.

* * *

AN: Everyone who thinks Dark was the captain, raise your hand…okay, now go back and re-read the story.

This time you won't have to learn any archaic words ('cept maybe 'acephalous'), but instead, if you want to understand this, you may have to brush up on your pirate lingo (and/or accent…).


	8. Ils disent c'est toute mythologie

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

AN: ...Scribbles, it's _all_ your fault.

* * *

The fire wrapped around him like a blanket. Such was his bed at night. He slept in the very hottest, purest flames, in the heart of the fire itself. Such was his home. When he was angry, the flames flared and licked about the Earth like living demons. When he was down heartened and dispirited the flames simmered quietly, trying to kiss away his tears.

In a million year's time, they would claim him to be the god whose both hair and eyes likened the deep red and the deep passion of the fire itself.

………………………………...

She was beautiful. She spent her time looking over herself and up keeping her image. Beauty is as Beauty does, they say now. She was unchallenged by any in the area of looks, and was far superior than any in a matter of charm. Her manners and elegance justified her haughty and conceded view of the world. The fact that she was a goddess placed her superior to mortals by birth anyway.

They say that her children were born with precious gems about their fingers, hence the 'ring' aristocratic mortals would wear to prove their blood and fortune.

………………………………...

If it was missing, it was his fault. If it was broken, it was his fault. If a prank was pulled, the finger didn't even need to be pointed, he was already to blame. 'Mischief' was his game and 'Deity' was his name. He had a habit of claiming that 'Mischief' was also his _middle _name, but that was never proven, since it was doubted that the Gods were even given last names, let alone middle names. But who's to refute a god?

They say that his forte was thievery, but that any other sort of trouble-making wasn't beyond him.

………………………………...

They said that his blue eyes could speak of oncoming storms. They said that if you looked deep into his eyes, you could learn to read the seas. For if his eyes were turbulent with mixed emotion, the waters would be riddled with undercurrents and low crests. Even the waves wouldn't be able to decide on a direction to roll. If his eyes shed a tear, the waves would pull back form the shore, taking comfort only in each other and distancing themselves from the beaches. But as his sadness left him and his wit and spite returned, the waves would rush back to the shores, reaching towering heights, and touching high grounds that had never been touched by the sea's waters.

He also, they said, had control of the frozen water, and that when he caught the snow in his hands it didn't melt as it would have in a mortal's hands, but that it's temperature would drop even lower, instead. They said that his touch was so frigid that when he slipped off his shoes, he could walk upon the water, as his bare feet would freeze it's surface.

They say that when he finally found a mortal he believed worthy of admiration, he would hug them, inadvertently chilling their bodies and souls to the point that their body would never again become warm, and their life was sent to the underworld, away from him. And thus he would be left alone once again.

………………………………...

The tales say that whenever the wind blows, fierce or gentle, it's his doing. It's because he's thinking. When he is mellow and content, and the matters on is mind do not trouble him, he will close his wings and lazily flap his mighty wings in satisfaction. When he was angry - which was any time that he was confused, surprised, frustrated, or gotten the better of - he would swipe at the world with his sharp white feathers.

The tales say that he and the god of the waters were closely connected. When the sea was angered and it flared with vengeance, the wind would be angered by the fact that he was upset. The winds would cut and whip about in violent storms with the ocean's crests and waves. They never comforted each other, only raged for the other's behalf.

………………………………...

Her thumbs, they say, were literally as green as the leaves on the trees, and her eyes, they claim, were the deep green of the moss. Her hair, they say, was as light to the breeze as the branches in the great, old oak trees. When she planted a flower, it grew to sizes and beauties unmatchable by any other. When she cursed a field, it became barren ad dead, never to be revived, regardless of how the mortals tried. It rained, they say, because she was watering all of Earth's plants at once, for she cared far too much for all of them to dare miss one. Flowers bloomed, they say, because she kissed each of them one at a time. Fruit, they say, was borne on the leaves that caught the spells she whispered into the wind.


	9. Alis Volat Propiis

AN: Though I don't know if this is all _that_ great, I hope this can make up for that last one…I didn't particularly like #10 either…

And in response to my last question of 'name that car,' the car was a Mazda; the only main manufacturer to take advantage of the Rotary Engine, which was invented by the German engineer, 'Something-or-other Wankel.' (And yes, Initial D _was_ my reasoning behind that…)

Disclaimer: I don't own DNAngel.

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"Here, I think you might deserve this."

The statement was made with the conviction enough to show that it was less of an offer than it was a forced gift. He was holding out his hand to her, and in it, he held one of his own pieces. Why he would happen to have it on him in the first place didn't really concern her, but she was more concerned with which piece it was.

It was the only one that she had really ever been after; the one that had been her goal the whole time. There they were, in the middle of the road, alone in the dark, and in his hand he held the King.

"…No, I don't deserve that…why would I? I…I didn't win." She spoke softly, as if the wind would carry away her words, and they could again be left alone with only each other.

He had heard her nevertheless, and his at first his only acknowledgement was to soften his eyes and let the corners of his mouth twitch upward in a gentle smile. His face was kind.

"Yes…you do. You did do something great. You may not have won, but you made a wonderful achievement, and that is why you are worthy of this. You are now the best of the best." His slow words upset her, even in his kind, soft voice.

"No I'm not! You're still better! Just because you're leaving that doesn't make me better!" her words weren't really angry, but more like frustrated. Frustrated that he would do this, frustrated that he would try to give her what she didn't deserve, and frustrated that he would lie. He _was_ lying after all, because really, the best of the best was himself.

Again, he just smiled that, light, almost invisible smile, and answered her without changing the peace in his voice.

"I'm not giving you this because I'm leaving, that was no achievement of yours, but I'm giving you this because - you are no longer my student. And _that_ achievement was made quite on your own."

She was about to cut in to tell him that that was not a thing to rejoice over, when he saw the look on her face and gestured for her to stay silent as he finished.

"You are no longer a student to a master, you are a teacher yourself now. I remember you working with that boy, and seeing how he looked up at you…don't think it a failure to me that you never beat me, think it a success for yourself that you know enough to lead others in my absence. The fact that I am leaving is not the only reason that you are going to be the best. Just remember, it was once said that, 'the best way to insult a teacher is to forever remain his student.'"

She could hold herself back no longer. As soon as he finished, she shook her head violently to try to clear away the frustration. Maybe all he said was true, but still! He was missing one very important part!

"But that doesn't mean anything! Maybe I _am_ no longer a student! But I still am not what you are! I can _not_ count this as a night of great achievement, nor can I accept that from you, if this is the night that you intend to disappear into! I…how could this be good for me, when it is now so horrible for you?" Her tone had turned something close to desperate as she asked her last question.

What she said didn't seem to surprise him, almost as if he had expected her to say what she had, and still, he smiled his fragile smile. The one that might just blow away with the wind if she didn't watch it closely enough.

"My dear girl…this may not be the easiest for me, but I certainly have accomplished harder tasks. I decided that it was time for me to go were I to loose, and low and behold, I lost. I won't go back now, most especially while I know that this is the right choice. But there is something you must understand.

"This may not be celebration for me, and it may feel like a loss to you as well, but you must realize that you have also gained so much tonight. With my fall comes your rise, and, as it was once said, 'With any gain comes a loss, and with any loss, a gain. It is up to you to decided which is to be valued higher: the bad, or the good.'"

With his final point made, he gently took her hand, and in it he placed his piece. He looked at her one last time, and, feeling that he had finally tied off all his loose ends, he slowly turned about and walked away. For a few moments, she stood on the spot, simply staring at the black piece. It had always seemed so mysterious and forbidden in the past. There had always been something _mystical_ about it. But now, it was just a simple black piece, carved of lifeless stone, and polished to a dull shine. There was no magic; there were no secrets.

Suddenly, she had to have the last word. The piece, she realized, had meant far littler to her than his words - though neither she would soon forget - and she knew that the least she could do was take such words of his to heart.

In the darkness, to a target no longer visible, she yelled out, "Yeah, well Winston Churchill once said that quotes are just for people who can't express themselves in a coherent manner!"

Somewhere in the darkened distance of the countryside and the forest, if she closed her eyes, she could hear his light chuckles. It was a soft noise, both from the distance and from himself, and it reminded her that she had never really heard it before.

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AN: There are really a few different characters this could be, I realize, but I only imagined two people while writing it, and then two others immediately after. I wanna see what you guys come up with.


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